


Hey, That's My Cigar!

by masterroadtripper



Series: Best We Can [10]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Basically, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Race and his cigars, mentions of smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterroadtripper/pseuds/masterroadtripper
Summary: Why does Race smoke?  Sometimes it felt like his brain was supercharged.  The only way he knows how to feel better is through smoking.  One day, Race runs out of cigars.
Relationships: Crutchie/Jack Kelly
Series: Best We Can [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555765
Comments: 1
Kudos: 28





	Hey, That's My Cigar!

Pulling himself out of his bunk after Jack woke them that morning, Race could feel his nerves buzzing. Pressing his face back into the mattress underneath him, Race knew it was going to be a bad day.

He didn’t know why it happened, or what happened, but some days, his brain just felt supercharged. Like he could solve every problem on the face of the planet while simultaneously solving absolutely nothing.

“Up and at ‘em Racer,” he heard Jack say before feeling his mattress shake. Jack had kicked it. Like how he kicked all the mattresses of the guys who didn’t get moving in a timely fashion. Race loved Jack like a brother but some days, the older boy drove him crazy. Especially when the movement on the mattress made his head start screaming louder and louder.

“Yah yah yah,” Race grumbled, opening his eyes and pushing himself to sitting.

 _Who left one of the sinks running?_ Race glared in the direction of the washroom as if his gaze on its own would turn the taps off and silence the whining and whistling noise it made.

Knowing that the longer he sat on his bunk would subsequently be longer before he could escape the lodging house and get some breakfast from the nuns, Race decided to skip shaving or washing up. Changing as quickly as possible, Race leaned over and pulled the box out from under his bed, searching for a cigar.

Some days, when he felt like this, smoking a cigar would help. It would take the edge off just enough to let him focus on selling his papers and not lash out at any potential customers. Opening the lid to the box, Race wanted to scream when he saw that it was completely void of any cigars.

Sure, his father’s dog tags from the war were in there alongside his old stuffed toy rabbit, too deformed and not-rabbit-shaped to even potentially resemble said animal unless one had previous knowledge of the toy, but there was not a single cigar.

Grunting and slamming the lid shut before forcefully shoving it back under his bunk, Race stood. Grabbing his hat and vest, he practically ran out of the lodging house, not even stopping to say good morning to Mother Martha on his way past.

* * *

Race felt slightly better out on the streets. The cool fall air blowing off the river helped settle his nerves a little as he made his way towards Trinity Church. He doubted that the nuns would be out on the steps with breakfast yet, but that did not particularly matter to Race. He just wanted some peace and quiet while he tried to figure out the maths needed to get some more cigars.

Sitting down on the cold retaining wall across the street from Trinity Church, Race tried to think of all the figures in his head. He had a quarter in his pocket for his fifty papers. If he managed to sell even half of them, he’d need to set aside a quarter for papers the next day plus twelve cents for lodging and supper that night. It would be a minor miracle if he made anywhere close to a nickel extra for a cigar. Or, a dime for two.

Race knew he’d have to up his selling skills if he hoped to make ten more cents than usual. Thirty-seven cents was a struggle most days. Unless there was a good headline. Which there hadn’t been in two weeks. Just the same damn headline about the trolley strike. Race felt for the trolley workers who were protesting, but it made it really hard for them to hawk the headlines when they were the only interesting thing happening in New York City that anyone cared to report on.

* * *

Collecting his papers just after Jack, Race mentally congratulated himself for not snapping at Weisel or Oscar. The buzzing in his head was so strong that it made him want to do fifty jumping jacks while screaming. Perhaps he should just do that. Get it over with and get on with his day. Though, he knew from experience that that wouldn’t do anything to help his cause. He’d tried. It didn’t help. There was no point in making a fool out of himself. He just needed a cigar and he needed one soon.

Heading out of the yard, Race flipped through one of the papers he’d pulled out of his bag and tried to read over the headlines, skimming through to find the one that would get him the best bang for his buck. Or, bang for the buck of people buying them. He didn’t think he would be able to come up with a creative headline this morning if one wasn’t fed to him.

Someone said something behind him and Race spun to face the voice. It was Finch. Race refrained from snapping at the other boy. It wasn’t Finch’s fault that Race’s brain was on the fritz and he’d forgotten to buy more cigars.

“Wha’ youse asks?” Race asked.

“Says youse ain’t lookin’ so good,” Finch said, flicking his way through the papers he had in his hands, not really looking up from them.

“Ain’t feelin’ great,” Race muttered before adding, “I’ll be fine.”

“If youse says so,” Finch said with a shrug as he started walking away down Water Street.

Race frowned in his direction and considered where he was going to sell that day. While he usually went down to the Sheepshead Racetrack, Race didn’t think that that was going to be a great plan. While he would get a good amount of money from selling at the Tracks, Race was pretty sure that the sounds from the stands would cause him to want to pull his hair out.

* * *

Sitting on a table at Jacobi’s, Race tried to take a couple of bites of the breakfast ham he’d taken off the plate that had been placed on the middle table. Every bite he took threatened to come back up just as soon as he’d managed to get it down. The buzzing in his head had only gotten worse throughout the day, and now, it was almost unbearable to the point it made his stomach feel sick.

Looking around and seeing Jack standing off in one of the corners near Crutchie, Race made his way over. He couldn’t do this. He needed to go back to bed. Sleep it off. Wake up tomorrow morning and try again. He’d made exactly forty cents off his papers already that morning, even though he hadn’t sold all of them yet. Maybe Jack or Crutchie could take his extras. Make a little extra money for making sure everyone got dinner that night.

“I’m headin’ back to the lodge,” Race muttered, gesturing vaguely to the door of Jacobi’s.

“Bad day?” Jack asked.

“Somefin’ like tha’,” Race replied before huffing out an objectively lame goodbye and heading towards the door.

* * *

Laying back on his bunk, Race pillowed his hands and arms behind his head, getting comfortable. Or, as comfortable as possible while laying on a paper-thin mattress on top of the wooden frame of the bunk. Race was, for once, glad that he wasn’t as tall as Specs or else his bunk would probably be even more uncomfortable.

Letting his eyes close, Race let his brain surrender to the darkness and relative quiet it provided. It didn’t last for long as the sunlight from the window turned his eyelids peach coloured and Race huffed in frustration.

Pulling his winter coat out from under his bunk, Race pulled it over his head and relished in the darkness again.

* * *

At some point, Race fell asleep. He only realized that he had in fact fallen asleep when he was woken by Jack’s shouting the next morning.

Slowly opening his eyes, he realized that he felt normal again. While normal was a subjective feeling, Race still sighed. Climbing off of his bunk, Race almost walked straight into Jack.

“How youse feelin’?” Jack asked, steadying Race with a hand on his shoulder.

“Betta’, fanks,” Race replied and he actually believed it.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I have wanted to do this story since I first started getting into this fandom and well, now I have a ton of time on my hands and thought, hey! why not write it finally? So, here it is : )
> 
> 2) I never specified "whats wrong" with Race that causes this to happen to him and left it purposely ambiguous to try to reach out to more audiences.
> 
> 3) if you couldn't tell, this takes place about a week before the timeline of Newsies! While this takes place in the Best We Can series, it doesn't have to be read in conjunction with it. 
> 
> 4) stay safe, wash your hands, don't touch your face, thanks for taking the time to read this!


End file.
